Because according to a recent Bustle article, exercising CAN HURT YOUR VAGINA! The 7 Plagues in order of least gross to most gross.

1. Cuts, Scrapes, & Bruises:

My first sad Vagina Memory occurred when I was an impressionable six-year-old and rode my banana-seat, girl’s Schwinn Stingray, right, smack into the curb and Joey Thompson’s house in front of him and all of his brothers (they had dimples, God help me).

My vagina collided with the “girl-bar” at the speed of light and has never been entirely the same ever since.

Your vagina should be treated the same as any other body part when injured. Be sure to use antiseptic for cuts and scrapes and ice for bruises, even if Joey Thomspon and his brothers nickname you Frigid, and you don’t know what that means until you’re thirty-two.

2. Inflammation:

Cycling is the usual culprit in vajayjay inflammation, but I came down with a rabid case of swollen lady bits after an exhaustive four-hour trail ride on a particularly trotty horse named Champion who frequently tried to buck me off into some scrub bushes while camping at Lake Cachuma with my grandparents circa 1977 at the age of thirteen.

I was particularly self-conscious afterward because a boy’s juvenile detention facility pitched their tents next to ours that day and I was positive all the juvenile delinquents (my first introduction to the allure of The Bad Boy) could tell, by the way I walked, that my lady bits resembled a catcher’s mitt.

And when sweat gets between places that rub together, well … I don’t think I really need to go much further.

My second sad Vagina Memory occurred my sophomore year in high school. I was coming off the track during P.E. running day and saw Jerome Sellars, my then-object of unrequited lust, squatting down to tie his shoelaces.

As I walked by, with what I hoped was an indifferent air, it occurred to me that my vagina was at his eye level. She instantly blushed.

But you cannot imagine her horror when, upon entering the girl’s locker room, she saw herself in a full-length mirror.

She emitted so much post-100-yard-dash sweat that it looked like she’d peed her pants.

Both me and my vagina hid from Jerome Sellars for the rest of our high school career and even ducked him at our 30th high school reunion.

I first noticed this phenomenon when I was pushing my then 4-month old daughter in a jogging stroller and I tried to actually jog.

To say my thighs rubbed together would be an understatement. It was friction reminiscent of two Mixed Martial Artists grappling for the World Championship. Left Thigh still isn’t talking to Right Thigh despite the fact there isn’t, nor will there ever be, a gap between them.

5. Bumps and Ingrown Hairs:

This did not seem particularly disgusting to me until I read these words, “If you do get a cyst-like ingrown hair or out-of-control pimple, use a hot compress or try a sitz bath. Apply antibacterial ointment. Don’t pop it, as it can pop from the underside and push infection into your bloodstream. If you think it needs drained, see your doctor.”

Bottom line is … your vagina is on the lam. It’s trying to escape your body, but to what end? Where does it think it’s going?

To find inner peace at the serene Jardin Majorelle in Marrakech? To dance the Argentine Tango with Maksim Chmerkovskiy? To sing the Turandot at La Scala?

If you want to keep your vagina prone to prolapse sequestered avoid ab exercises. Stick with having the man-in-your-life do them instead, right after he brings you a tray of melons and guavas along with a thin Kentucky Cheroot cigar and six shots of Mescal.